


Garlean Spirits

by The Rose Mistress (Semilune)



Series: Hear, Feel, Think [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Awkward Conversations, Aymeric will be appearing, Bad Decisions, Belligerent Sexual Tension, But i wanted to write it, Complicated Relationships, Emotional Baggage, Enemies, Enemies having long-winded conversations, Estinien is a stalker, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Gaius van Bae-lsar, Garleans (Final Fantasy XIV), Good Intentions, I just can't help myself, Multiple Relationships, Obsession, So here we are, Some Plot, Speculation, Spoilers, Stalking, Suggestive Themes, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Unrequited Lust, Unresolved Tension, Verbal Sparring, Villains, We all know it's true, What-If, because reasons, but mainly because I'm a trashcan, everything's a mess, god I love Estinien, honestly, mild physical aggression, really just wanted an excuse to set up interactions with Gaius, so help me, still not sure where I'm going with this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2019-10-15 05:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17522738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semilune/pseuds/The%20Rose%20Mistress
Summary: ✦ SPOILERS!  Mainly Stormblood, also Shadowbringers.  Something of an interlude between 4.56 and 5.0, an excuse to explore the interplay of moral ambiguity, identity, and self-worth.  Please do not read unless up-to-date on patch (4.56).  Chapter One contains a Table of Contents for navigation.  (Now with 15% more Estinien!)☾◈☽Time can yield bitter truths.  But sometimes, the passage of time creates something worth savoring.Run, Warrior, or stay.  It makes no matter.  You cannot escape the past.





	1. Foreword & Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> Begun 1/8/2019. This all started with the (4.4)-(4.5) patches, and the prompt "Gaius 'bae' Baelsar" / "How can I get them to interact?"
> 
> Apparently the answer to that question is alcohol and my mage's deadly sense of curiosity. 
> 
> Might depart from "canon" for my WoL — and obviously I'm working with very limited information at present. But I wanted to explore the possibility of this relationship all the same. We'll see how this develops.
> 
> Cheers!

* * *

✣ **Foreword** ✣

For the most part, entirely "canon" continuation of my study "Astral Fire, Umbral Heart."

This started as an interlude between the end of Stormblood and (now into) the beginning of Shadowbringers.  It's mostly an excuse to throw my girl Sam at a certain smoldering legatus, and of course keep touching on her relationships with two particular Ishgardians.

Honestly, Samantha "Garlean Daddy Issues" Floravale REALLY doesn't need this.

Thank you, as always, for reading.

* * *

 ☙  **Table of Contents** ❧

* * *

 

  1. **Foreword & Table of Contents**
  2. **Merely a Conversation**  
The Warrior of Light responds to a mysterious summons from Gaius.
  3. **Captivation**  
Gaius thinks back on his reasons for pursuing the Warrior of Light.  
She thinks back on her reasons for distrusting him.
  4. **Suffer, Roam, Sanction**  
A brief interlude to offer a glimpse into Samantha's present emotional state.
  5. **Careful Visage**  
"I believe that I am not the only one fond of wearing masks."
  6. **Collateral Matters**  
Of all the godsdamned days for it to rain in the desert.
  7. **Casual Interest**  
“You hackle and snap and snarl,” he muttered, his voice deep and dark.  “So like a wild animal—so eager to keep your distance.  But something about me still intrigues you,” he said softly, his eyes sparking with pleasure.  “And so, you keep approaching, too curious to resist.”
  8. **Cold Companions**  
Estinien played so well at hard edges, at remaining aloof.   
But perhaps he, for all his bitter objections, was bound tightest of them all.



 

* * *

☾◈☽

* * *

 

 


	2. Merely a Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warrior of Light responds to a mysterious summons from Gaius.

* * *

☾◈☽

* * *

 

He stood by the table in the back of the lamplit room, resembling a shadow—which, she supposed, was oddly fitting.

His back faced her.  From her vantage point, she could see his casual attire—rough-hewn shirt and slacks, earth tones.  She was overdressed in her long, ruffled skirt and tailcoat, but she cared so very, very little.

Samantha leaned her channeling staff against the wall by the door. Then she took a breath and announced her presence.  “I have come,” she said.

Slowly, he turned to face her.  Pale eyes, the beige of dim dawnlight, met hers.

“Warrior,” he said tersely, inclining his head by way of greeting.  “Sit.” He gestured to the table and chairs a short distance away.  An intimate setting.  “I would have us share a drink.”

A bottle of— was that _wine?_ —sat chilling in the center of the table.  Cautiously, she edged closer to the seats, pausing for the length of a breath before taking the nearest one.

“Gaius—” Gods it felt _strange_ to address him by his name.  She cleared her throat. “I admit—I am a bit unclear as to the _purpose_ of this meeting,” she said, examining his grave expression.

Baelsar stared at her for a very long moment.

Whether or not he still held the title of Legatus—and even dressed as he was in his loose-laced traveler’s shirt and trousers—the shape of the man was exactly as tall, broad, and imposing as she remembered.  She watched the expanse of his chest rise and fall as he took a slow, steadying breath.

Then he folded down into a seat of his own.

“Merely a conversation,” he muttered, making himself comfortable—retrieving the chilling bottle from the bucket of ice that held it.  He uncorked it smoothly, lifting it into the light.  She had a good look at the contents: fully amber, with a touch of pale rose.  Some kind of liquor, then.  Perhaps Garlean, since it seemed entirely foreign to her recollection.

Then again, she wasn’t known for her expertise on fine spirits.                                       

“A conversation?” she asked, with no small measure of hesitation.

He filled a glass halfway with the blushing golden liquid and slid it toward her.  She eyed it suspiciously before pulling it closer.  It smelled mildly sweet.

He caught her eye for the briefest moment.  Was he _smirking_ at her?  “A rumor of an amusing nature reached my ears some time before our _reunion_ ,” he clarified.

“And what sort of rumor might that be?” she asked, watching him carefully as he poured himself a glass of his own.

Gaius chuckled.  The sound was disarmingly warm, full and smooth around the edges.  “It was regarding the nature of your _heritage_ , girl,” he conceded, utterly without ceremony.  “A rumor that your bloodline, perhaps, is of a somewhat _convoluted_ nature—by Garlean standards, at least.”

The blood in question quickly flooded to her cheeks, wordlessly confirming his hunch.  She felt embarrassed, for reasons she couldn’t entirely describe.  She lowered her eyes to the drink at her fingertips and took a calming breath.  “I suppose it’s worthless to deny it,” she muttered.  “I was sired by a son of Garlemald, that much is true."  Then she narrowed her eyes.  “I do not often speak of it.”

He chuckled again.  “A deserter, no doubt,” he said quietly, dismissing her reproof.  His tumbler was fogged with a mist of condensation from the cold liquid contained within.  “Our numbers certainly do seem to be growing.”

She watched as he wrapped dark, calloused fingers around the glass, lifting it to his lips for a very long sip.

A gentle scowl colored her features.  “Have you really brought me here to discuss my _lineage?”_

He swallowed, then turned to her and smiled.  Again, so pleasantly warm.  His eyes were soft, almost haunting.  How many times had she looked upon him and seen nothing more than a monster—a _machine_ —something heartless and unfeeling, wreathed in sheets of metal?  Never once had she considered the man beneath the armor—beneath the _mask_ —nor the gaze that it had hidden.

Now those heretofore hidden eyes crinkled with the edge of his smile.  Now he sat here, a mortal creature beside her.  Now, she fully realized how wrong she’d been to deny him his humanity.

Oh, how wrong she’d been, about so very many things.

“I brought you here that we might _commune_ ,” he explained, unblinkingly holding her stare.  “That we might meet each other, _eye to eye_.”  He continued to watch as he took another long sip of his drink, seeming to inspect her.

She studied him right back.  “A communion you begin by mentioning the secret of my Garlean blood—” she muttered, thinking it through.  “A somewhat unusual quality—shared between the two of us.”  She leaned back in her chair, holding him in her gaze. “A thing we have in common, I suppose.”

His lips spread into a slow smile, his eyebrows lifting slightly.  He was urging her on.

She crossed her arms.  “Are you trying to _get to know me?_ ”

He full on laughed.  If his chuckle and smile were strangely beguiling, his laugh was earnest charm—deep and rich, downright swelling to fill the room.  “I intend upon something of the sort, yes.”  His eyes flashed with humor.  “How very _observant_ of you.”

“Please,” she muttered.  She grabbed the drink he’d poured for her and downed half of it at once.  It was spicy, citrusy, mildly sweet—and honestly, quite good.  “I followed along on your trail of blasted breadcrumbs, but I am not a fool.”

He was watching her and grinning.  “Nor would I have you believe I think you one.”  He lounged back in his chair, cradling his glass in one hand.  “You have bested me with your levin and hellfire one time too many, Hero of Light.”

She scowled at him with as much ice and darkness as she could muster.  “Hear me well, Baelsar."  She decided to confess it.  "I own that I was wrong in the past—for seeing nothing but a mask." Then she fixed him with a tense and searing stare.  “But if you have come here tonight seeking my _friendship_ , I cannot say that I am prepared to offer the same.”

He said nothing, only watched her with those pale, piercing eyes, utterly unfazed. He drained the rest of his glass.

She took a breath.  Took another sip of liquor, draining hers too.

His eyes flashed.  “Care for more?”

A moment of hesitation.  Then she slid the tumbler across the table in a silent invitation.

He obliged, filling his glass, too—passing hers back.  They drank together in silence, each watching the other—each waiting for another inevitable spark of curiosity.

He wet his lips.

“Tell me, then,” he asked, the first to crumble.  “What do you think of the man you unmasked?”

She stared at him for a very long moment.  As she finished her second glass, a haze seeped in on her from all sides—buzz from the liquor.  Liquor she shouldn’t be drinking, she noted, somewhere in a rapidly dulling corner of her mind.  She was probably poisoned by now.

_Serves me right._

“I don’t know this man,” she said truthfully, handing her empty drink back to him, nodding to the bottle, ignoring the warnings in her mind.  “The man I knew died in the Praetorium—or so I believed.”

He shot back the rest of his liquor and laughed again.

She wasn’t sure she liked his laugh—the way the enchanting warmth of it crept down inside her, smoldering somewhere deep in the core of her bones.  A laugh like that was dangerous.

“The man you knew _did_ die in the Praetorium,” he conceded, handing her a filled glass.  He poured himself another and stared at it darkly.

Ghosts fluttered behind his eyes.  She knew that look—knew it inside out, as one she all too often wore.  Her throat closed against the strange swell of feelings inside her.  Pity?   _Understanding?_

She glared at her own drink, swallowing it down fast—savoring the way it burned.

“We can never escape the past,” she muttered, surprised to hear herself speak.  “Not one of us can leave it truly behind.”  She closed her eyes.  “We are the sum of our sins, Gaius. You as well as I.”

He gave a heavy, resigned sigh.  She opened her eyes to find him gazing at her.

“It is so,” he began, his voice very soft.  “But whose sum has borne the greater burden?”  His eyes seemed to burn through to her heart.  “We, both of us, are bound by the outcome our conquests.”

The echo of words he once spoke rang through her mind.

_For when the dust of battle settles, it is ever the strong who dictate the fate of the weak._

She closed her eyes to shut out that shrewd, piercing stare.

“You would have me think us one and the same,” she muttered.

He chuckled darkly.  “Are we not?”

She opened her eyes to glower at him.  “Under the fist of the Empire, you took _countless_ lives—”

“And have you not?” he countered.  “How many lives— _Garlean_ or otherwise—have you destroyed in _your_ particular pursuit of justice?”  He lifted one dark, heavy brow.

She could taste iron in the back of her throat.

He was right, reluctant though she was to admit it.  How far did she truly stand apart from those she’d come to oppose—Gaius, Varis— _Zenos_ , even.  Each of them stood for some cause, some _ideal_ , be it a glimmering dream for the future or the personal zeal of something more selfish.

If extremes led to disaster—perhaps to _calamity—_ where should she stand?  How should she proceed?  It was a question she asked herself dawn to dusk, a concern that kept her from sleeping most nights.  She swallowed hard.  Her hands were trembling, and she balled them into fists.

“We are not so dissimilar, you and I,” Gaius said, very softly.  “There is no shame in accepting that fact.”

She cast a tense glance at him and looked over his features—from the third eye breaking the plane of his forehead, to the piercing cold of his eyes, down to the stern set of his lips.  The warmth in her bones quietly smoldered.  He was … He was _right_.  But that wasn’t what upset her.

It was the fact that she was drawn to him.  _Attracted_.

Maybe it was the liquor.  But in some corner of her mind, a train of thought kept beckoning.  If he was not Gaius, and she was not the Champion of Eorzea— _gods damn her_.  How many times in the past had she heard tale of his _reputation_ —of fool upon fool who craved his approval, his _affection_ above all else?   Was this why?

Had he simply some ineffable charisma—some magnetism that pulled people in?

He was watching her silence with curiosity, observing the swarm of thoughts in her eyes—the changes in her expression.  She thanked the Twelve that he couldn’t read her mind.  

His lips parted.  “I still believe we could be comrades.”  Then he paused, his eyes roving across her face.  “Surely you remember my offer of friendship before I drew my blade.”

She shut her eyes, wishing she didn’t.  “It is not a memory I think upon fondly,” she muttered.  “Recalling it now goes a long way to convince me we could never get along.”

His eyes glittered.  “But you bested me at my own game,” he argued.  “Power I desired, and it was _you_ I received.  You gave me the gift of defeat—showed me the true definition of strength.”  Something like respect swelled to fill his eyes.  “Ever you impress me.”

She felt very tense.  If it wasn’t for the warmth of drink in her veins, she knew she would be uncomfortable.  “I suppose I am glad that you—hold me in some esteem,” she said, her voice halting a little.  She pressed her lips into a thin line.

There was a hard, knowing gleam in his pale eyes. “You still see me as a foe,” he murmured.

Once again, he was right.  “I cannot deny it,” she said.

“I wish to meet you as merely a _man_ ,” he explained.  “Regardless of our history.”

She scoffed.  Somehow the notion struck her as funny.  The buzz of liquor in her mind was making her fuzzy, vaguely giddy. “You could never be _merely_ a man to me, Gaius,” she muttered.   _Although I hardly recognize you without all that gods-forsaken armor._  She chuckled to herself and sighed.  “You will ever be something— _else_.”

He was reaching for her empty glass again—filling it.  Had he always been sitting that close?

“I beheld you in a similar fashion,” he conceded, looking at the contents of the liquor bottle.  It was draining fast.  He fixed her with a probing stare.  “An Eorzean woman, but ever something _else_.”  His eyes sparkled.  “Long did I study you, wishing to discover the secret to your powers.”  He kept his eyes locked on her as he swallowed the whole of his drink.  “You _fascinate_ me, now as you did then,” he admitted, his eyes beginning again to glitter.  “My captivating adversary.”

He returned her filled drink.  When she reached for it, their fingers brushed together—his skin was warm.  Her face felt numb, hot.  “And yet, for all your dazzling words and proclamations,” she muttered, “You still refer to me as your _opponent_.”

He laughed low in his throat.  “To have another chance to defeat you—to quench that fire in your eyes—” The way he looked at her now was predacious.  “Perhaps we can spar when the dust of our accursed scuffle with the Void has settled.”

She could feel herself squinting at him—her eyes narrowing—her brow furrowing.  “Nothing could tempt me to fight you again,” she said blankly.  “Not with things as they are.  It would mean nothing— not to insult your _worthiness_ as an opponent.”  She frowned against the numbness in her lips.  “But beyond that—”

Dare she ask it? Dare she give voice to the question that pricked at the back of her mind? 

She dared.  “Why do you look at me so?” she asked, steeled for the consequences.  “And do not lie to me, Gaius.  It is unbecoming of a man like you, who so despises _mendacity_.”

That made him laugh loudly.  It was almost _fondness_ in his eyes—somewhere behind the raging _interest_.  “May I speak plainly?”

She folded her arms on the table and stared at him hard.  “Have you not been already?”

He laughed again.  “You cannot imagine how much I _enjoy_ this,” he said, the laughter creeping into the depths of his eyes.  “You are a fierce and alluring woman,” he murmured.  “Everything about you intrigues me.”

Was Gaius van—Gaius _Baelsar_ coming-on to her?

She glanced down at the half-gone bottle of liquor—at the full drink in front of her—at the faintest, wickedest hint of invitation in his eyes.

Her chair made a loud scrape against the floor as she got to her feet—perhaps a little too quickly.  Her head swam.  “I could be mistaken,” she muttered, filling her voice with warning.  “But from the tone of your comments, honest though they may be, I find myself questioning your intentions.”

Still seated, he looked up at her through his lashes.  “Merely to capture your portrait, _Samantha_.”  He nearly purred her name.  “Nothing more, nothing less.”

Gods.  She knew it was partly the effect of the liquor—partly the effect of adrenaline—but the way his voice _caressed_ her … “I believe I must take my leave,” she said, picking careful steps away from the table.

He made no move to get to his feet, only inclined his head.  “We shall meet again,” he said by way of sendoff.

Would they?  She glanced down at him with a sharp and cynical expression.  He merely grinned. 

She took a steadying breath and began for the door—one, two, three full steps—before she hooked her heel on a jagged floorboard, and immediately lost her balance.                

A slow wave of shock prickled through her body, and she braced herself for impact, for the crack of her joints on the floor.  But the thrust of a hard-muscled arm broke her fall—the strong grip of a wide hand closed firmly around her shoulder.

That touch.

Her head spun.  A flash of memory bloomed in spots behind her eyes.

A room made of metal, the floor beneath her creeping downward.  The rival she faced—a towering horned monster in a mask—cleaved the air with crosses of ceruleum light. As she evaded him, he vanished before her very eyes.  And then she felt him behind her—felt the threatening presence of his body—the firm and murderous grip of his hand, clamped down on her arm.  She was caught—screaming, _roaring_ —bearing down with white knuckles on the body of her staff—drawing down fire and lightning, breathing it through the very aether of her body.  It seared down her throat, burned through the marrow of her bones—crackled and flared along the plate-mail of his glove, making the monster shrink away.

The memory cleared, but the touch on her shoulder did not.  She could feel hot aether pooling in the pit of her stomach, gnawing at the base of her spine, pulsing and destructive.

Gaius was saying something, his voice dark and amused.  “I suppose vermouth is the key to your weakness, then,” he muttered.  “Would that I had offered you a drink long ago.”

Her face burned and she twisted away—away from the hard, unwelcome line of his forearm against her—away from the grip of his fingers.  Away to save him from the power that threatened to strike him down again, at the slightest provocation.  “Don’t touch me,” she snarled, jerking to face him.  He was standing now, much closer than she expected. He towered over her, exactly as she remembered.

He lifted both of his eyebrows and drew himself well back, raising his hands where she could see them.  It was not the claws of her enemy that had touched her—merely the dark and calloused fingers of a former military marshal.  But both belonged to Gaius.

“I wished to break your fall,” he said slowly, earnestly, shaking his head. He wore an expression to match.  “I had no desire to cause you distress.”

It might be the truth.  Her head was swimming too much to be sure.  She rubbed the spot on her arm where he’d caught her, smoothed down the buttoned front of her coat.  Her heart was pounding, _racing_ , her pulse sprinting with fear from the flashback.  “I thank you for your concern,” she muttered, avoiding his face.  “But—” She swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth.

 _You still see me as a foe_.  She glanced up at him.

His eyes were hard, his jaw tight, but the rest of his expression was blank.

She cleared her throat.  “Good night, Gaius,” she said, inclining her head very slightly.

He tilted his head in response, but kept his mouth closed.  

All that remained was picking a path again to the door.  Her steps were careful and deliberate; no stumbling this time.  She kept her spine straight, her shoulders squared.  When her fingers reached the handle, she fought the urge to look back—only retrieved her staff from the spot where it waited nearby, and opened the door into the dimly lit hallway beyond.

His deep voice swelled to fill the space behind her.  “I will find a way, Samantha,” he said darkly. “To have you as my comrade in arms. Make no mistake.”

Silently, doubtfully, she closed the door behind her.

 

* * *

✣

* * *

 


	3. Captivation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaius thinks back on his reasons for pursuing the Warrior of Light. She thinks back on her reasons for distrusting him.

* * *

☾◈☽

* * *

 

For the world of man to mean anything, man must own the world.

To this end, he hath fought ever to raise himself through conflict, to grow rich through conquest.

 

* * *

 

The worn mattress of the bed creaked as he sank down on the edge of it, bending over to rest on his knees.

Gaius closed his eyes and took a slow breath. He savored the waning thrill of pleasure that jolted down his spine.

His pieces were set upon the board.  The first advance was made.  Now all that was left was to arrange the conclusion—to secure his triumph. 

Of course, since _she_ was involved, there was no guarantee of triumph at all.  But that stoked the flames of his vigor even higher.

He chuckled to himself, low and humorless.  Since when did the promise of defeat instill such a feeling of bliss?  Since when did he almost crave to be overcome?

This meeting had been a trial—an evaluation of the strength of his volition, to assess the depth of his wish to _collect_ her.  In all truth, he was surprised to feel it so keenly. 

He opened his eyes to look down at the rugged floorboards beneath his feet; smoothed the heavy ridge of his knuckles along his lips.  It had been inevitable, he supposed.  The zenith of his fascination with the Eorzeans, with their _Scions_ —the culmination of years of bitter struggle.  From his earliest days of skirmishing against them, he had nonetheless been impressed by their ability, by their _resolve_.  Hearkening back on it now, even despite scorn of their beliefs, they enthralled him.  In the years before and since the Calamity, he studied them with vested interest.  And then _she_ emerged among their ranks.

That thrill in the base of his spine again—that flutter of delight in his stomach.  He grinned, flexing his hand.

Adventurer.  Warrior.  Savior of Eorzea.  She reversed his own conquests—secured the liberation of Ala Mhigo—kept rising to grant deliverance even to Doma.  And somewhere along the lines, she vanquished the dragons of Ishgard.

All strong victors depend upon their comrades, as he was keenly aware.  But still she was incredible—well-possessed of the power to lead—and well-worth his continued captivation.

He would use their common Ascian foe to unite them, to overshadow his role as former adversary.  Given his raw ability and experience, he was confident in his worth as an ally.  And now, if prolonging their rivalry served her no purpose—as she herself admitted—she should soon begin to see past it.

He lifted his head to regard the door through which she’d escaped.

Addled though she was by the Ilsabardian vermouth, and falter though she did for that one fleeting moment … The muscles in his body tensed.

When he touched her, caught her fall, he could almost feel her power, coiled within.  And when she twisted to snarl her warning at him, her eyes were dark and fierce, the depths of them hot as embers.

He well remembered the last time he had her in his grip. He closed his eyes to recall it.

Darkness.  The whirring pulse of the Castrum around him.  The solid, familiar hilt of Heirsbane in his palm.  The perimeter blurred as he focused only on her—the blaze in her eyes—the necessity of her defeat.  He would hold nothing back.  And so, he unleashed the gamut of his power against her.  He threw wide, glancing blows with his blade—cast ceruleum flames to sear the air and veil the floor.  He pursued her around the arena with blinding speed, eluding her comets of ice and fire.  And then he caught sight of his opening.  In a flash, he rushed to her blind spot—pinned her back against the unyielding, metalclad tower of his body—closed his fingers around the thin column of her arm with bone-crushing force.

The girl writhed and screamed, the sound of it grating, sharp with surprise.  In his folly he almost began to taste her defeat.  But she lurched back against him.  She was tall and strong—stronger than he anticipated.  The plates of his armor buckled with the impact and he began to poise his blade, to consider the option of slitting her throat—interrupted by the sudden, searing pain that consumed him.  It crept from the arm that held her in place.  Electricity was seeping out of her, burning to envelop the web of his nerves—searing toward his spine.  He jerked himself away.

Even now, he could feel an echo of that pain, hot and stabbing, threatening to engulf him.  The beginning of his downfall.

Doubtless she remembered that moment just as vividly.

He took a calming breath.  That witch.  That _girl_.

 _That woman_. 

Behind his eyes he conjured the features of her face.  Dark, arching brows.  Long black lashes to frame her deep-set, smoldering eyes.  The hard line of her nose and solemn set of her lips.  It was a fierce beauty she possessed, but beauty, nonetheless.  And for someone so beautiful to hold such tremendous power … She was certainly a force to be reckoned with.

During their conversation, he made no effort to hide his observations.  Perhaps that had been a mistake.  Perhaps he should not have let on to the _carnal_ facets of his attraction.  But the layers of his captivation were what they were—inextricably intertwined.

He had a taste for fine things.  Fine women were no exception.  And, by his estimation, she was among the very finest.  He chuckled.  Perhaps he could take her to bed to sate this obsession, to master her by means of another dance of conquest.

The improbability made him laugh out loud—together with the fact that he truly considered it, if only for a moment.  But a creature who bristled and snapped at his touch would never yield or succumb to it.

He banished the notion and thought back on more attainable endeavors.  She was one of the Scions—and would therefore respond to diplomacy.  The lot of them were hungry for tactful relations, and at this juncture, he was more than happy to provide.  If the pattern of his charisma was to be trusted, he had employed it to some benefit already.  Yes, a wide breadth of time stretched between the present and his past political ventures.  But he’d always had a touch for pacing—provided he did not allow his personal interest to dictate the conversation. 

He allowed himself a moment of weakness this evening.  It was of no matter now.

He would find a way to meet with her again. 

And when he did, he would be on his very best behavior.

 

* * *

 

In her state, the journey to Mor Dhona left her breathless.  Channeling from aetheryte to aetheryte took every fragment of her concentration, and most of her energy besides.

Her stomach gnawed and churned, drawn into knots by the Garlean liquor.  By the time she finally arrived, she lurched toward the entrance of the Rising Stones, ignoring the spinning in her head and the burning in her lungs—propelled desperately toward the dormitories by the overwhelming urge to vomit.

She encountered no one in the halls.  It was eerily quiet—no one asking her to explain herself, or wondering with desperation where she’d been.  She forced herself to ignore the silence.

After her stomach emptied itself, she rinsed the bile from her mouth and stared at herself in the mirror.  Her hair was limp and damp, her skin pale and sweating.  She shivered with another chill of nausea before deciding to strip down and take a bracing shower—to rinse the shame of the evening from her body. 

As water streamed down on her skin, rage boiled in the pit of her stomach.

Now that she was alone—now that he was nowhere nearby—that strange, mind-numbing haze had lifted.  She could still feel a buzz, but it was clearly Gaius—somehow _Gaius_ , not the liquor he dispensed, who set her thoughts wildly astray.

She was furious at herself for listening to him, for paying attention to anything he said.  

He was _wrong_. They were _nothing_ alike.

That he could even _think_ to draw a comparison—

When had she oppressed nations of people?  Never.  She met all who cared to know her with some form of dignity and understanding—provided they weren’t immediately trying to kill her.  She fought for freedom and safety, not to gild the chains of the conquered.

She strove to _preserve_ the world as she knew it—to improve it.  Not sunder it apart and consume it.  The same could not be said for the Empire or, by her reckoning, anyone who chose to support it.

She closed her eyes.  Took a breath. 

 _Well_.  Perhaps that was wrong.

Not every Garlean _chose_ his fate.  Perhaps very few of them did. 

Her mind itched to think of her father—of the fact that he disposed his rank and castrum, simply to love her mother.  But Gaius was not the same.  Was he not loyal to the Emperor?  Would he not serve if he was able?  She cast him down at Castrum Meridianum.  But what if she had not?  Wouldn’t his role and opinions be the same as before—if not even stronger?

The world believed him dead.  He had been stripped of his rank and his title—far removed from a willing act of choice.  Now he was a ghost with the unexpected privilege to leave his sins and identity behind—to some extent at least.

 _“The Legatus of the XIVth Imperial Legion died in Castrum Meridianum_.  _I_ _am no more than Gaius Baelsar, a man without rank or allegiance.”_

She tilted her chin to allow the water to stream down her neck; turned and cranked up the heat to let it pulse down her back.  The room filled with vapor, and she breathed it in deep, soothing the bitter aftertaste in her throat.

_“Even with the might of Allag at my command, you bested me.  And as the Praetorium went up in flames, I was content to burn along with it. … For a moment, at least.”_

She scoffed.  Water encircled her neck, streaming in rivulets down her skin. 

 _“The Black Wolf has shed his pelt, never to return to Garlemald or her legions_.  _I live now only to exact revenge.”_

Vengeance.  Honoring those who died for his cause. 

A shining counterpoint to the depths of Garlean depravity—or so he would have her believe.

How carefully had he crafted those words?  They hit their mark, to be sure.  Well did she remember watching his airship drift away, shocked and enthralled by his demeanor.  Noble, contrite, and commanding—that stern, reserved mercenary bore almost no resemblance to the beast she’d faced in the Praetorium.  He _protected Alphinaud_ and _returned him_ _safely_ —or as safely, at least, as possible.  For that fact alone, she entertained the information he delivered—and he presented every bit of it forthright, with frankness and conviction. 

But how deeply did she _believe_ him?

Gaius was clearly a man of many talents, spoken word apparently one of them.  But even he could not deny the things he once stood for—the atrocities he had a hand in committing.  And whether he drew the line at some things, like the death of his comrades, or inhumane tactics—poison gas or otherwise—to her that still seemed unacceptable, like the driest afterthought of ethics.

Perhaps in Garlemald he was an honorable man.  And perhaps he had spared Eorzea the carnage and mayhem of a slightly less scrupulous oppressor.  But oppressor he had been.

She closed her eyes—tipped her head back into the stream of hot, rushing water.

_“We shall meet again, Warrior of Light.”_

The thought of it filled her with misgiving.

Would they, truly?  And if they did … What should she rightly expect?

 

* * *

✣

* * *

 


	4. Suffer, Roam, Sanction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude to offer a glimpse into Samantha's present emotional state. 
> 
> This chapter is, for the most part, entirely "canon."

 

* * *

 

 The soul yearns for honor, and the flesh the hereafter.

  
Look to those who walked before to lead those who walk after.

 

* * *

☾◈☽

* * *

 

The morning came to greet her with a sick and hollow feeling—the familiar, festering ache of dread.

She could almost feel the gears around her shifting,  _rearranging;_  the notches dislodging.  The pieces of her life that she’d so carefully managed to lock and reposition, beginning again to slowly split apart.

First there was always the urge to escape—the instinctive need to flee somewhere else. 

 _Flight_. 

Then there was the urge to scream—to struggle—to bring her will to bear, against some worthy opponent, or poor, slavering monster.  

 _Fight_. 

And then, almost an afterthought, there was the urge to seek  _help_.

Today it came as the yearning to pen a letter—and only two potential recipients quickly sprang to mind.

Of course, one was in the wind.  She doubted very much that she could find him, even if she tried.  Estinien journeyed to destinations untold, for reasons of his own, utterly alone.  A letter would never reach him.  She would have to wait instead for one of his rare, but inevitable visits—and ask him his opinions then.

Aymeric, on the other hand, was easily found—but all too rarely accessible.  Ever since assuming his role as Speaker of the House of Lords, and notwithstanding her own obligations, it had become increasingly problematic to meet with him in person.  She even found herself  _looking forward_  to political conferences, of all things, if only for the brief guarantee of his presence—and the desperate hope of catching him somehow alone.  They did, however, keep regular correspondence.  She tenderly filed and collected his letters at the Manor Fortemps, where nothing could disturb them.

She decided to pen letters to both of them regardless—knowing the exercise would be helpful in and of itself, as a method to channel her anxiety.

As she listened to the scratch of her quill nib against the paper, it was easy to imagine Estinien’s voice responding with cold, blunt reason—and Aymeric’s, with untiring warmth and understanding.

Beratement from one; gentle concern from the other.

“Are you  _mad?_ ”Estinien would growl and glower—the dark frost of rage swirling in the depths of his eyes.  “If he summons you again,  _refuse him_.”  His answer would be gruff and simple.  “You possess neither the time nor the energy to winnow his  _godsdamned chaff_.”

Aymeric, on the other hand …  “I do not fault you for attending him.”  He would begin very measured and calm—his pale eyes tense with secret worry.  “But as you well know, each of his statements should be taken with more than its share of salt.”  He would listen quietly, absorbing every particle of information.  “Should he propose another conversation, be on your guard—take precautions.  You would do well to prepare yourself for every conceivable outcome.”

Finished, she stuck her quill back in its stand—leaned back to survey the letters she’d penned.  Her handwriting reflected her emotions.  The scrawl began loose, illegible in her urgency.  But as it progressed, her script drew in on itself, becoming tighter, clearer, the words more concise.

She groaned and buried her face in her hands.

The person she really needed right now was Alphinaud—and not the faintest part of her was ashamed to admit it.  She needed to hear the turn of his phrase, as familiar as breathing, to put her back in her place.  Alphinaud, with all his fussing and fretting, was ever the surest way to ground her down to earth—to take her back to before this all happened, when she was merely an adventurer, nothing more, nothing less. 

She could almost hear his voice crack with fury. 

“ _You went to his summons without me?_ ”  The scolding that followed would come in force.  She would try to soothe him, to offer some placation, but it would be impossible.  “By the  _gods_ , Samantha—use me as an  _asset_ —how many times must I beg of you—”

She pressed the heels of her palms hard against her eyelids.  Tears were pricking, a reflex to the emotions she knew were stirring somewhere deep inside—but they seemed so dull now, so very far away. 

In the past, her reactions to catastrophe were stronger, _fiercer_ : Bitter and sharp, tearing her apart with soul-sundering power.

Now, she only felt numb.

Still, the faintest voice in the back of her mind whispered.

_I swear to you, Alphinaud—Alisaie—my dear, precious friends._

_I will find a way to protect you_.

 

* * *

✣

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing about the WoL's reactions to MSQ events is extremely difficult. I truly have no idea how a person would react to that kind of emotional stress, or such a constant, damning onslaught of loss and tragedy. Does the power of Hydaelyn's blessing extend to managing emotional pain? If not, how can one mortal being endure so much anguish? This game is honestly such a rollercoaster ride.
> 
> And that's not even addressing the WoL's vicarious exposure to the suffering of OTHERS via the Echo— ... and THAT'S not even touching upon the fact that it is often the suffering of ENEMIES that the WoL witnesses.


	5. Careful Visage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I believe that I am not the only one fond of wearing masks.”

* * *

☾◈☽

* * *

 

Sweat coursed down the back of her neck. 

 _Again_.

She pressed her heels into the dry Mor Dhonan earth, and swept her staff in an arc above her, drawing aether in from her surroundings—pushing it up through the circuit of her body—channeling it in force through the focus. 

Several yalms away, a half-crystallized boulder was engulfed in a sudden blast of flame, wreathed in tongues of white-hot blue and orange.  As suddenly as it appeared, the explosion dissipated, replaced by a foul miasma of shadow.

Astral fire licked through her veins, hungry and gnawing, wont to consume her.  It left her feeling hollow, aching, sick and ravenous.  She sucked in a deep breath and focused on transposing the element—from a savage blaze to ice, numb and solemn.  A vision swelled in her mind: Cold Coerthan nights, buried to her knees in bone-chilling snow—the bite of the wind dulling her senses.

Immediately the pressure faded.  A gossamer web of frost spread to ease the fever in her blood, soothing and cold.  She released the breath she’d been holding.  White mist escaped her lips.

Her lungs burned with the exertion—the muscles of her body tense and rigid.  She could taste the iron of her own blood in the back of her throat, as she was prone to at the end of a session.  The apex of her blackest magick was taxing.  While she took great pains to hone it, to keep it reined in, she knew it was ultimately beyond her control.

One wrong move, and she’d be burned to a crisp like the black crust of ash on that boulder—or frozen through like the darkest pit of Ishgard’s abyss.

 

* * *

 

She returned to Revenant’s Toll covered in dust and grime from her training afield in the Tangle.  A letter was waiting in the Rising Stones on her arrival.

The script on the back was scrupulously tidy and old-fashioned, wholly unfamiliar.  She turned the flat square of paper over in her hands, leaving behind the faintest smear of ash and dirt.  Even the seal was nothing more than a simple, smooth disc of wax, with no discernable crest or insignia.  She puzzled it over for several moments before carefully unfolding it open.

Inside, the same meticulous script spelled out a stark demand.

_Allow me another attempt at conversation._

_G.B._

Looping initials. A time and address, printed in neat, flowing letters along the bottom. 

It was not a request.  It was an _expectation_.

She squinted.  Rural Gyr Abania?  The bloody bastard had _balls_ trying to meet with her so close to Ala Mhigo.  Then she squinted harder.  _How did this letter reach me so quickly?_

Her heart seemed to plummet to the pit of her stomach.  Was he somewhere nearby?  _Lurking?_   His small airship was innocuous enough—easy to sneak among the others that scooted through the skies.  But surely _someone_ would identify him prowling about on land.

Her heart plummeted further, derision swelling in her chest. 

Because he’s so godsdamned _recognizable_.

She closed her eyes.  Crushed the paper between her ash-stained fingers.Swallowed the bitter taste in the back of her throat, because deep down, she knew she would acquiesce.Deep down, she knew her curiosity would get the best of her.

Deep down, she knew she couldn’t resist.  And it sickened her to realize that he did, too.

 

* * *

 

At the appointed place and time, she found herself trudging around the flank of another seedy hostelry—a venue where the gil of the customer mattered more than the identity, no doubt.  All the same, she grumbled to herself under her breath. 

Maybe _his_ face could pass for less than infamous in public, but _hers_ could not.  She felt exposed—even beneath the deep shadows cast by the hood of her cloak—even with her nose and lips well-concealed by the folds of a thin linen scarf.

The sound of a smooth, rolling laugh that somehow leached to the marrow of her bones.  She jerked around to find a tall figure lounging against the moldering, peeling side of the building, watching her with a bemused expression.  He wore a raggedy combination of layers resembling those she’d seen on him in the Burn—though any sign of masks, Ascian or otherwise, was noticeably absent.

She glared at him with as much force as she could muster.  “Are you _laughing_ at me?”

A smirk tickled the corners of his lips, his eyes glittering—but he kept any comment to himself, offering her a heavy shrug instead.  “Join me for a stroll?”

Anger itched up her spine.  She stiffened, glancing at the bleak prospects around them.  “Where?”

He unfolded his body from the wall with lazy, feline grace.  “Come.”

At his lead, they set off away from the shadows of the building, out across the dry earth of the highlands.  With no clear objective in sight, she followed several paces behind the broad, imposing plane of his back, her nerves utterly on fire.

She was prone to terrible decisions, but this was probably the worst one yet.  The last time, they’d spoken in a building—surrounded by witnesses.  But now she was following a former Garlean legatus into a strange, unfamiliar wilderness.  Desiccated grass and gravel made crisp sounds beneath her feet, and she steeled her confidence—rallied every straggling splinter of her strength.

A patch of sprawling woodland slowly came into view.  Low brush framed by tall, shady pines—certainly secluded, but perhaps therefore bereft of prying eyes.  She quickened her step to catch up with him, to place herself parallel to his body.  Now dried needles and leaves crunched at her heels.  She could hear the faint chatter of birds from the canopy overhead.

She stole a sour glance at Gaius.  His face was relaxed—his sharp, heavy features smoothed out by the sheer absence of any emotion.  He kept his pale eyes fixed on the path they picked through the forest, ignoring her furtive attention.  The dappling shadows were deep and cool upon them, the fragrance of pine sap swelling all around, when he finally deigned to break the silence. 

“I am not accustomed to making apologies,” he declared resolutely, his deep voice stark, leaving silence in its wake.  “Nor do I particularly wish to adopt the habit.  I am aware, however, that I inflicted some measure of— _discomfort_ at our last meeting,” he muttered.  “That was certainly not my intent.”

Indignation began to swell in full force in her belly, but she swallowed it down and forced herself to be calm.  She took a breath and focused on the long columns of the trees all around them, the rough and intricate geometry of the bark.  “Tell me, then,” she began, speaking very slowly—driving straight to the point.  “What _was_ your intention?”

Now he strode ahead of her, bracing himself against a young sapling as he navigated a twisted carpet of roots.  “I thought I made that very clear,” he said, glancing back at her.  “Then as now.  To commune.  To converse.”

Wrath burned hot beneath her skin.  She pulled the scarf down from her face; yanked back the hood of her cloak to pile it round her shoulders.  “You know very well how difficult that is for me to believe,” she snapped, lunging forward to match pace with him again—to meet him neck and neck.  Her dark hair rushed in tangles around her face and she shoved it back behind her ears, glaring up at him hard.  “That you would meet a formerly _hated rival_ with nothing beyond the urge to _talk_.”  She snorted, glowering.  “Please.  Spare me.”

His expression was very calm.  _Infuriating_.  “If you wished to be spared, you would not have come,” he said simply, gazing down at her.

She pressed her lips into a thin line.  He turned to begin back off into the forest, and she followed. 

“I know the game that you’re playing,” she continued, easily keeping stride.  “You _knew_ that I would come to meet you.  You _already know me_ ,” she pointed out.  “Like all the others, friend and foe alike, you’ve kept your tabs and your studies.”  She could feel her face creasing with the weight of her scowl.  “You have no need to _speak_ with me—no need to _converse_.” 

Now her voice hissed like venom.  “Why play the fool with me, _Gaius?_   Why, when I know very well that _you are not?”_

The chuckle began low in his chest, deep and satisfied.  “So crumbles her careful visage,” he murmured, almost to himself.  He stopped walking to lean back against a tree, crossing his arms, watching her with shadowy fascination.  “ _This_ is what I wished to see.”

She stopped in her tracks and braced herself against the forest floor.  Her face ached with the sharp pull of her acrid expression.  “ _What?”_

His pale eyes flashed.  “The collapse of your façade,” he said forebodingly.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips.  “You think I actively fashion one?”

His lips twitched.  “I believe that I am not the only one fond of wearing _masks_.”

There was a ringing in her ears, worsened by the stifling silence of the wilderness around them.  The chatter of the birds and animals had quieted, no doubt scared off by their presence.  “You’re wrong,” she spat.  “I do not hide myself from those that truly understand.”

He watched her blankly.  “Do you not?”  A simple question, but one with implications that seared through her heart. 

She stalked up to him in slow, deliberate steps. 

“Be wary of provoking me, Baelsar,” she growled, glaring up at him.  “I laid you low once.  I could do it again.”

He pressed his lips together and lifted a heavy brow, coolly holding her stare.  “As I seem to recall, ‘nothing could tempt you to fight me again.’  Is your word worth so little?”

Her nostrils flared, ire like vinegar in her veins.  “You are _very adept_ at testing my boundaries.”

He full on laughed.  His eyes crinkled with crow’s feet at the edges.  He shifted his weight to rearrange the arms round his chest, regaining his serene expression.  “I suppose that was a reference to your infinitesimal capacity for drink?”

His rejoinder felt like a slap in the face.  “I know when I’m being toyed with, Gaius,” she said, offering him a deadpan expression.

He scoffed. “That you believe I would simply _toy_ with you is insulting,” he protested. “Nothing I do is without its merit.”

She threw her arms wide in indignation.  “What _is_ this, then?”  She lifted her eyebrows, staring him straight in the face.  “What do you want from me?  To choke you again with fire and lightning?”

Was it her imagination, or—did he shiver?  No.  He was holding himself stiff and tall, gazing down at her with the strangest sense of shadow in his dawn-light eyes. 

“Not in the slightest,” he assured her.  Then he unfolded himself from the tree trunk and resumed walking.  “Though after our last encounter, I admit that I found myself recollecting when last I had the _pleasure_ of tasting it.”

She ground her teeth and followed after the broad expanse of his back.  “It was not a very pleasurable experience for me, either,” she said, leaves and gravel crunching again beneath her feet.  Between the breaks in the trees, she could see the beginnings of a rocky outcrop, peeking out on the far side of the forest.  Slowly, the foliage gave way to a thrilling view of the wild Gyr Abanian landscape.

“No,” he conceded.  He slowed his stride, making room for her to meet him.  “I imagine it was not.”

She aligned herself beside him again, perplexed by the silent invitation to match pace, but not daring to question it.  “Had the outcome been any different—” She paused.  “You would have killed me,” she noted.

In the corner of her vision, she saw his chin tilt down—a curt nod.  “Had you not managed to first override my circuitry.”

They emerged at the fringe of the trees to overlook the high desert.  It was breathtaking—steep red crests of marbled sedimentary layers, framed by the crowns of jagged peaks in the distance.  She had to take a moment to center herself, to return to her body, as she always did when confronted with this sight.

“A spectacular vista,” Gaius noted, his low voice genuinely warm and admiring.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

“Eorzea is wild and magnificent,” he continued, well-aware of her inspection.  “Ever have I thought this.”

She wet her lips.  “But Garlemald is of the opinion that wild things must be tamed,” she muttered.

He was quiet, examining the view a moment longer before turning full to face her.  “Even you must admit that your people are very _unruly_.”

She pursed her lips.  “And yours, perhaps stifled by a false sense of direction,” she countered, watching him with a fierce, unblinking stare.

He looked deep into her eyes.  “You knew your father very well, did you not?”

The words—the unexpected change of subject—slammed into her with all the force of a heavy weapon.  She clenched her jaw.  “Yes.”

Gaius studied her face.  “Does he yet live?”

She could feel vitriol rising behind her eyes, and kept her mouth sealed carefully shut.  To what end did he _dare_ ask such a question? 

Whatever the case, she would not provide him with further ammunition.

He paused.  “Your father must have cared for your mother very much,” he muttered.  “Yet you do not like to speak of them.”

Her heart clenched and she looked away—back to the astonishingly beautiful view of the canyon.  “No,” she confirmed, watching three crows drift low along the horizon.  “Not with _strangers_.”

Both she and Gaius were silent for what felt like an eternity, listening to the whisper of the wind through the peaks, breathing deep of the dry, mild air.

“I have no wish to be your enemy,” he finally stated, his voice nearly carried away into the trees.  “Truly.  Not when there is so much to be gained otherwise.”

She sighed and turned to face him.  Feeling the pressure of her stare, he fixed her with his piercing eyes.

“Remind me again what we stand to gain,” she said, her voice dark and doubting. 

He looked from her eyes, down to her lips—to the loose folds of the scarf around her neck—then back up to the heat of her stare.  “More than _this,_ ” he said, gesturing between them with one large hand.  “Anything is superior to stalemate and stagnation.”

She held his gaze for a long moment—forced herself to look into his eyes without fury, without _falter_. 

The question was simple.  Could she trust him? 

The answer came as a resounding no. 

Curiosity ghosted across his rugged features as she stared at him in silence, considering the facts.  In the absence of trust—when the time came for his inevitable betrayal—would she be able to strike him down again?  Or would he emerge the final victor?

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she dug her heels into the ground, bracing herself.

“Alliances are built on trust,” she began.  “Successful ones, at least.”

He tilted his head in agreement, keeping their eyes locked together.  “I cannot disagree.”

She took a sharp breath.  “I need some form of assurance,” she declared.  She had no plans to let down her guard.  But by no means did _he_ need to know that.  “Some guarantee that you will not plunge deep the dagger as soon as my back is turned.”

The look in his eyes was almost sad.  “Perhaps you might believe me better if I used another phrase.  It would be a _waste_ to destroy you, Samantha,” he said quietly.  “I have no aim to do so.”

Well.  It certainly sounded slightly more authentic, even if she wasn’t convinced.  She traced the lines of his face with tense eyes.

“One last question,” he said, training his gaze back on the horizon.  “Though I doubt you will grant it an answer.”

She studied his profile for a moment before following the line of his sight—to watch those same three crows from before, rising higher and higher on the valley’s thermal currents.

When he spoke, his voice was faraway.  “Did you ever ask your father to speak about Ilsabard?”  He paused.  “About Garlemald?”

She was silent.

One of the crows split from the others, sailing wide.

“No,” she said, watching the lone bird drift away.  “I never asked,” she said darkly.

_I never wanted to know._

 

* * *

✣

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These characters are both extremely difficult to write — even my own OC, which feels a little ridiculous to admit! Still, I hope you are enjoying this little pet experiment.


	6. Collateral Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the godsdamned days for it to rain in the desert.

* * *

☾◈☽

* * *

 

They trudged back through the wooded area in silence.

There was a sudden chill in the air, carried by the shifting wind.  Clouds had begun to roll in on the horizon, muting the bright, pale light of the sun—deepening the shadows of the canopy overhead.  Though the Warrior of Light and Gaius Baelsar picked their paths very differently through the tangling roots and brambles, they kept pace together, side by side.

It felt strange to her. 

_Bizarre._

The residue of her anger, past and present, still throbbed hot in the pit of her stomach.  But walking alongside him like this, there was also now the strangest sense of _ease_ —mismatched and dissonant—that she couldn’t begin to place.  It was almost like somehow, in some alternate version of events, there was meant to be this thread of something _else_ between them.

She winced at the thought. 

Then again, fate had done a very good job so far of lashing them together.  Regardless of how she felt about it, perhaps their rivalry was _meant_ to evolve—to adopt another shape and form.

Beside her, Gaius took a breath.  “You noted the matter of assurance,” he said lowly, breaking the silence.  “Of _collateral_ , perhaps.”  She could feel him turn his sharp eyes on her for a moment.  “Is there something in particular you would ask of me?”

She thought about that as she picked several footsteps through the folding carpet of underbrush.  Perhaps, even with him—on this matter at least—honesty was still the best policy. 

“Normally I would ask for an oath of good faith,” she said frankly, pressing her palm against the rough, chafing bark of a tree; noting the cold bite of the breeze that caressed her.  “But at the risk of sounding _insulting_ , I can’t place my faith in you, Gaius.”  She sighed, furrowing her brow.  “I need more time to ponder this—to come to an adequate conclusion.”

He made a gruff sound of acknowledgement.  “In that case, might I suggest a more direct method of communication?”  The faintest sense of humor crept into the depths of his voice.  “—And perhaps put an end to these _meetings_ you despise so much.”

She pressed her lips together in distaste, but kept any comments to herself.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him dip his hand into the pocket of his coat.  When he withdrew it, he was holding a palm-sized box.  “No doubt knowledge of your linkpearls will suffice,” he said briefly. 

Then, suddenly, he crossed into her path and blocked her with the wall of his body.

Mystified, she stumbled to a halt—fought the hot, defensive flash of aether in her belly—stared in stunned silence as he invaded her space, captured her wrist in one hand, and pressed the box into the cage of her fingers. 

Again, at the touch of his skin, she was somehow shocked to find it warm.  Why was it still so impossible to fathom that he, too, was made of flesh—same as her? 

Samantha flinched away from the contact—away from his _proximity_ —and closed her hand around the small container.  She lifted wary eyes back to his.  “What is it?”

He tilted his chin in a gesture down to it.  “Open and inspect it for yourself.”

She narrowed her eyes and squinted at him for a moment.  The cool breath of the wind rushed between them, and his expression remained serene and blank. 

A sly glance at the sleek casing almost reminded her of Cid’s Ironworks.  On further examination, and perhaps more aptly, it resembled something Scaevan.

She slowly pressed the pad of her thumb along the edge of the box—the thin seam lining it—the small lip of metal she found to indicate the opening.  A hidden hinge flipped to reveal an insulated interior that sheltered a tiny device, clearly magitek in nature—fashioned to sit neatly around the shell of the ear.

_A Garlean transmitter._

Her jaw tensed.  It felt wrong to be holding it, to be touching it at all.  “I can’t accept this,” she muttered, snapping the lid shut, immediately trying to return it—and giving him a slow, shrinking stare.  “Why did you bring this _with_ you today?”

“Emergencies occur,” he said simply, as though that dismissed the question.  At her continued suspicion, he chuckled.  “I am in possession of several,” he explained, pressing his palm flat on the case—pushing it, along with her arm, back toward her body.  “Each unit feeds directly to my primary device.  My comrades may use them to contact me as needed.”

 _Comrades_.  Which heavily implied that she was now counted among them.

Wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

She closed her eyes—clenched her fingertips around the hard frame of the container—felt the pressure of his touch lift away from it.  “This isn’t right,” she muttered, opening her eyes to stare at the box.

“I respect your hesitation,” he said calmly.  “But allow me to persuade you.”  

She slowly met the pale beige of his gaze—squinted at him again.  “How?”

He grinned in triumph and turned on his heel to begin picking back through the forest.  “ _Collateral,_ ” he said, quite unhelpfully.

She swallowed the indignant groan that swelled in the back of her throat.  It was clear that he was leaving her with the device—whether she wanted it or not.  She shoved it deep into the pocket of her cloak and started after his trail of snapping twigs and heavy footfalls.

To make matters worse, she could taste moisture on the breeze—felt the pressure of it start to throb deep in her hipbones.  Rain was coming, and at this rate, they might be caught in it.

When she was neck and neck with Gaius again, he gave her a sideways glance. 

“You mentioned some form of assurance,” he began, hooking his palm against a wide trunk, glancing up at the canopy overhead.  The clouds were getting thicker.  “A direct line of contact to my person could be very _disadvantageous_ ,” he said, emphasizing the critical word.  “For me, of course.”  He used one calloused hand to push his heavy dark hair back from his forehead.  His third eye was revealed, just for a moment.  “Especially should the unit fall into the possession of— _less than friendly_ hands.”  He let his thick hair fall back into place, concealing the small ivory sphere in the center of his brow.

He cast her another glance from the corner of his eye—a long and significant glance.

She felt her face crinkle. 

He wasn’t _wrong_.  The offering of the transmitter was strange from every angle.  But what did that mean for her?  The weight of the box pressed against her thigh, and she considered it. 

In a far-off sense—if she stretched reality _just_ a little—he was placing himself, in however small of a fashion, directly in her hands.

She chewed on the inside of her lip and scowled at him.  “I hear you,” she acknowledged.

Another small grin that quirked his lips.  “So perhaps I have somewhat simplified your pursuit of _assurance_.”

She frowned at him.  “Remember what I said about testing me,” she warned.

He laughed gently, and they continued in silence. 

They were more than halfway back when she felt the first icy pinprick on her cheek—heard thunder finally raise its voice to complain in the distance. 

_I knew it._

She blinked up at the web of branches overhead—at the darkened bellies of the clouds beyond them—and picked up her pace.  The pit patter began very sparsely, barely dampening the dirt and leaf litter.  But soon the heavens were opening, and Samantha was struggling to keep her streaming wet hair out of her face.

It was also _freezing_.  She hissed a curse under her breath. 

“Seven hells,” she muttered, yanking up the hood of her cloak and shoving the scarf back up around her lips. 

_Of all the godsdamned days for it to rain in the desert._

Beside her, Gaius was tilting his face to the sky—closing his eyes, allowing the rain to shower down on him.  She ignored him and hunched against the downpour, not caring if she left him behind. 

_He’s a big boy.  He can take well enough care of himself._

Now the forest floor was cross-hatched with muddy rivulets, the fragrance of wet leaves and rainwater full-bodied and cloying.  She had to focus to maintain her footing which, between the roots and uneven terrain, was precarious to begin with. 

One heel slipped out from under her.  She braced herself against the slick bark of a nearby tree. 

Behind her, Gaius gave a humorless chuckle, right on cue. 

“Never fear,” he said drily.  “I shall refrain from touching you this time.”

She glared back at him darkly through the rain that monsooned around them.  “Good,” she snapped, regaining her balance.

It took too long for the forest edge to come—too long for the cover of the trees to thin and vanish, making way for the full, crashing force of the heavens.  The trek back to the hostelry was long enough, but the remainder of hers was even longer—and her body was already betraying her.  She shivered beneath the layers she wore, which were quickly soaking through—growing heavy and damp, sticking coldly to her skin.  She could use magick to dispel some of the elements but needed to reserve her energy—to avoid the throes of aethersickness.  Still, she seemed left with little choice.

She slipped a hand into her _other_ pocket and gripped the scepter hidden there.  Her vision blurred as she focused on the center of her belly, the lowest pit of her stomach.  She reached for the astral aspect—plucked it from the darkness in-between—and allowed that bright, gnawing power to fill her.  Pulsing heat spread to the base of her spine, dull and aching.  And slowly, beneath the sopping wet layers of her clothing, she began to warm up.

“What are you doing?”

The sound of his voice made something flare inside her—defensive instinct reacting.  She screwed her eyes shut and took a sharp breath, swiftly releasing the dangerous upsurge of magick.  The fire-aspected aether fled from her body in an instant, escaping her lips like smoke. 

She shivered and hugged her arms around her body, hunching back against the rain. 

_So much for that._

He spoke again.  “Are you cold?”

“Stop talking,” she growled, moving faster. 

Now the ground was only mud and dirt—no leaf litter to render the journey more treacherous.  But her heels were still sliding with the force of her movements.  All she wanted was to escape—to _get away from him_ —to make her teeth stop their gods-forsaken chattering.

And then the shape of the seedy saloon was manifesting on the horizon.

 _Finally._ She felt her muscles tense at the sight of it—felt her legs start to scramble even faster.

Now there was a touch of—was that _concern_ in his voice?  “You must come inside,” he muttered, easily catching up to walk beside her.

“I won’t set foot in that place,” she grumbled, flinching away from him.  _Least of all with you._ She hunched even further beneath her heavy, dripping layers.

“The keeper is never at his post,” he said—which was hardly reassuring.  “Dry yourself by the hearth in my room before returning to—wherever it is you are going.”  He paused.  “I am endeavoring to _improve_ your opinion of me, not to cause it further tarnish.”

She was cold and miserable but not a fool.  If she accompanied him inside, it would be a show of vulnerability—of _weakness_ —and she wasn’t keen on exposing any more of them. 

But then some thunder cracked, loud and deafening, directly overhead.  She felt the aether of levin all around them, prickling sharp in her veins—electric and deadly—and knew she no longer had a choice.  She groaned a resigned sigh, pulling the wet folds of her scarf higher around her face.

Samantha glared at Gaius with tense eyes and squared her shoulders. 

“Only until the storm has passed,” she muttered curtly.

He seemed to fight the urge to smile, keeping his expression carefully blank—save for the bright flash in his pale-yellow eyes, fierce and victorious.

 

* * *

✣

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After sitting on this for quite some time, I'm thinking of turning "Garlean Spirits" into an exploration of Sam's interactions with ALL of the Garleans in her life.
> 
> We shall see!


	7. Casual Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You hackle and snap and snarl,” he muttered, his voice deep and dark. “So like a wild animal—so eager to keep your distance. But something about me still intrigues you,” he said softly, his eyes sparking with pleasure. “And so, you keep approaching, too curious to resist.”

* * *

☾◈☽

* * *

 

Just as described, there was no innkeeper at the post—no one to witness their approach, save a handful of patrons at the shabby, unappetizing ground-floor tavern.  Nobody lurked in the halls nearby—no one cared to notice them at all. 

A small and somewhat disquieting concession.

The stairs creaked and shifted as they ascended toward the inn rooms.  It smelled musty and mildewed.  _Old_.  In disrepair like much of the countryside, ravaged as it was by years of relentless devastation.

Four, five, six doors down, and Gaius produced a key that unlocked the seventh.

The room looked even shoddier than the hallway, with a musky smell to match.  The floors were in very poor shape, the walls even worse—but there was indeed a hearth, and Gaius busied himself setting it to light.  She watched him strike sparks and flames to the kindling with some mixture of numbness and disbelief.

There were no thoughts that sufficed—nothing but a dull and constant ringing in her ears.

Once the fire was crackling and radiant, her unwanted companion shrugged off his coat and spread it out to dry.  Then he crossed over to where she still numbly stood, and held out a wide, expectant hand.  She stared at it vacantly.

“Your cloak,” he demanded.

Her eyes slowly lifted to his.  He held her stare unblinkingly.

She cringed and averted her glance—stared in defeat at the damp trails they’d tracked in along the floor.  He laughed darkly.  “So, vermouth and _cold water_ , then,” he muttered.  He flexed his fingers by way of beckoning.

Samantha pressed her lips into a line and glowered up at him.  Then she reluctantly unfastened the closures along her neck and chest, shrugging the heavy, sopping garment from her shoulders.  Without another word, she shoved it ungratefully into his outstretched fingers.

He simply walked away to spread it beside his jacket.  “The rest of your attire should come off to dry as well,” he said plainly.  “But do kindly spare me the resounding _no_.”

It was true.  Every inch of her body was damp, and the skirts of her long black robes were literally dripping on the floor.  Still, there was no chance in hells.

Thunder roared outside.  She stalked over to the corner where a set of rickety stools stood waiting, and dragged one over by the fire.  When she sat down, her clothes made a loud and atrocious squish—wet and damning.

Gaius laughed loudly and sighed. 

“I could never be so fastidious,” he muttered.  And then he began to open the set of straps that were latched around his chest, removing the leather vest that held his ragged shirt in place.

She stared at him in horror.  “What—are you _doing?”_

He was placing the items strategically by the fire.  “Unlike you, I have no desire to catch _pneumonia_ ,” he muttered, shrugging off a heavy, sopping scarf—and unceremoniously stripping away the shirt that clung tightly to his dark skin.

She caught a glimpse of nasty scars—of heavy, rolling muscle—before looking away very quickly.  “Forgive me for having a sense of propriety _,_ ” she huffed, unbidden heat rising to her face.

Now she could hear him approaching again—see his bare torso move in the edge of her periphery.  That familiar touch of dark humor lit his voice.  “You will forgive me for regarding _propriety_ a great deal less than I do _survival_.”

“I believe I will survive a little rain,” she grumbled, staring hard at the fire, shutting him out of her line of sight.  “Whether I choose to strip my clothes off or not.”

“Suit yourself,” he said quietly.  She heard another belt unlatch—the rustling of another heavy, damp stretch of fabric.  She closed her eyes and kept her neck stiffly faced away from him, horrified by the knowledge of what he was doing.

A door somewhere behind her opened, then shut again.  And then she heard the heavy creak and groan of plumbing.

Was he—was he _taking a bath?_

After a moment of hesitation, she jerked around to look, and sure enough, there was no sign of him anywhere in the room.

 _Hells alive_.

If he wasn’t even _here—_ perhaps now she could do some casting without interruption.  She jumped to her feet and nearly ran to her cloak, inspecting it thoroughly—glancing at the heavy deluge outside the dirty window.

There wasn’t a chance of her leaving soon, but if she could speed up this leg of the process ...

She reached again for the scepter and, this time, beckoned the first magick she ever learned—the magick of body and earth, the magick of healing—focusing on the water held in the fibers of her cloak.  She would coax it to evaporate. 

Her temples instantly began to pulse with the narrowing down of her will, the force of her concentration.  White magick never came easily, always elusive to master.  But slowly, as she watched with tight eyes, a dry patch began to creep along the hood—and the humidity in the room began to rise.

Some of that was the fault of Gaius no doubt.  She glanced back at the door to the washroom, ensuring it still was shut—then returned her attention to banishing the rest of the water from her cloak.  When it was only cool—not damp—to the touch, she tilted her focus to the clothing she yet wore—the layers that still stuck wetly to her skin. 

Her head ached and throbbed.  _So much to dry._  

Another glance at the door to the washroom.  And then she kicked off her boots and quickly began to strip off her robes, just down to her chemise and smallclothes—which were also soaked through.  Shivering, chattering, she piled the freshly dried cloak on her body, shoved her arms through the sleeves, and fastened it all together with clumsy, trembling fingers.

And not a moment too soon.

She heard the door creak open behind her and winced with every muscle in her body.  A wave of hot, humid air rushed into the room.

“Ah,” he began, surprised.  She could hear his bare feet make soft sounds against the floor.  “I see you began to take my advice.”  She kept her back stiffly turned as she heard him rummaging around behind her, afraid of the eyeful she might receive otherwise.  “I admit,” he continued, his voice low and thoughtful.  “I expected you to depart in my absence.” 

More than anything, she wanted to focus on wicking the rest of the wetness from her clothes—but her nerves were, once again, shot.  She pressed her fingers to her temple and sat back down on her stool, grumbling under her breath.  “No.  I suppose I was too distracted by the fact that our encounters keep growing _increasingly_ _bizarre_.”

He laughed loudly. 

Again, that damn inexplicable _warmth_ and charm.  She could hear the heavy clinking of something like a belt—the soft whooshing whisper of something else.  “The water seems to have _magically_ _evaporated_ from your cloak,” he noted.

She scoffed.  “Such a clever choice of words,” she muttered, sardonic. 

He laughed again.

Outside, the rain came down in sheets, wave upon wave, pounding down against the roof.  Now and then there was the sound of brittle scattering—something perhaps like ice or sleet. 

Then there was the groan of another stool, dragging across the floor—and a brief pause before Gaius crept back into her periphery, entering her field of vision.

He was still naked above the hips.  The heavy, corded muscle of his torso was truly almost shocking.  He was holding the waistband of his trousers up by his belt, keeping the closure pressed together with one hand—the strap of a fat knapsack in the other.  She scowled back at the fire—listened to the hiss of another round of sleet on the roof. 

How _old_ was he again?

“It may behoove you to spread the rest of your clothes out to dry,” he casually suggested, leaning over to place the rucksack between them.

She glared at him from the corner of her eye, but took the recommendation, stretching her robes by the fire.  “It might be to _your_ advantage to _finish_ _getting dressed.”_

He looked down at himself, then glanced back up at her. 

The look his eyes could only be described as knowing.  “Does this offend you?”

She took a breath and stared daggers at the licking flames of the hearth.  “Offend isn’t exactly the word,” she grumbled, sinking back on her seat.  Her hair was drying stiff across her forehead and she combed her fingers through it, tucking it angrily behind her ears.

Gaius chuckled, fastening his pants and his belt, squatting down on the stool he’d dragged over—making no attempt to fetch a shirt.  Then he bent down to open his bag. 

She caught a glimpse of tins and packages, parchment paper and burlap, and—of course—strange and foreign bottles of things not unlike liquor.  He retrieved one of the uppermost tin containers and popped the lid open, revealing nuts and candied fruits. 

He balanced it flat in his hand, slowly holding it out to her.  “Care for anything?”

The fire crackled, the storm outside unremitting.  Gaius sat there, half-clothed and—save for his physical conditioning—less-than-half intimidating. 

Yet still she watched him with the eyes of a feral animal, debating whether or not to trust him.

She finally sighed and took a cautious handful, narrowing her eyes.  “First you get me drunk,” she muttered, popping a pebbly walnut into her mouth.  “Now you _feed_ me.”

He roared a laugh.  Then he set the container down on the floor by her feet and reached back to rummage in the knapsack.  His pale eyes glittered as he glanced up at her.  “Have I done something in error?”

With his hair wet and pushed back from his brow—with the firelight smoothing the lines of his face—he almost looked vulnerable.  He almost looked—

She clenched her fingers around the dry kernels in her palm and turned her gaze back to the hearth, pursing her lips.  “I can’t make heads or tails of what you’re doing,” she admitted, shoving the handful in her mouth.

His low, self-satisfied chuckle.  Gods how she hated it.  “Keeping my friends close and my enemies closer,” he quipped suggestively.  “Or something quite along those lines.”  She made to send him a grimace and found him tearing a slab of jerky in half.  He put one end in his mouth and held the other piece out to her.

She snatched the offering from his fingers and took a vicious bite.

As they chewed, he watched her with inscrutable amusement—which only stoked her hatred. 

“What,” she finally snapped.  “What’s so funny?”

He lifted his heavy eyebrows, but his sphinxlike expression intensified.  “Nothing in particular.”

She squinted.  “Then why do you look so _godsdamned delighted?”_

The corner of his mouth quirked, but he suppressed the grin that threatened.  “I doubt you would enjoy the truth,” he proclaimed, fixing her with an unblinking stare.  “Particularly after spending the better part of this day emphasizing how little you trust me.”

“But I know how much it _thrills_ you to test me,” she challenged, pressing her lips flat together.  “Why change your habits now?”

His grin began to break through, to surface perhaps against his will.  He bent to rest his elbows on the sprawl of his thighs—smoothed the heavy ridge of his knuckles along his lips—looked up at her with cold and calculating eyes.

“You hackle and snap and snarl,” he muttered, his voice deep and dark.  “So like a wild animal—so eager to keep your distance.  But something about me still intrigues you,” he said softly, his eyes sparking with pleasure.  “And so, you keep approaching, too curious to resist.”

Her heart stuttered with a mix of—what _was_ that?  Revulsion, but—her pulse was racing fast again somehow—and nothing to blame this time, no liquor or spirits—nothing but the fact that he was _right_.

After all, she had drawn the selfsame conclusion. 

She exhaled through her nose and stared hard into his taunting eyes.  “I need to make sense of this,” she muttered.

 _Of you_.

He grinned, stretching his hand.  “Let me know how I might assist.”

There it was in his eyes again—the faintest, wickedest hint of invitation.  It was magnetic and persuasive, almost begging her, daring her to engage.  But this time, she was sober as a judge, and suddenly without a lingering shadow of a doubt.

Gaius Baelsar looked at her with something beyond _casual_ interest—and it baffled her by every conceivable measure.

“No,” she said darkly—responding less to his words, more to the silent, licentious request.

His eyes glittered, and he sat back up and shrugged.  “Give it time.”

She squinted, unsure what it was _he_ referred to.

Another roll of thunder outside, loud and deafening.  His eyes drifted back to the window, where a fresh curtain of rain hammered down.  “The downpour is unrelenting,” he blandly observed.

She sighed heavily.  Caged in this room for the foreseeable future, with a man whose intentions were, quite literally, questionable at best?  She supposed it was within the typical realm of her luck.  But should she goad him to admit it?

Thunder rumbled.  Ice clattered against the window.  There was truly nothing better to do.

So, she took a breath.

“I can see it, Gaius,” she said dully.

She felt the heat of his gaze.  “Come again?”

“The way you look at me,” she muttered, reaching down with one hand to explore the tin of fruit and nuts—plucking out another walnut—relishing the crunch of it in her mouth.  “I mentioned it before, but you seemed to deny it,” she mused.

She glanced over to find him watching her with reserved anticipation.  “What did I deny?”

“Your ulterior motives,” she said, frowning.

His brow furrowed very slightly, but he kept his face blank.  “Tell me what you see,” he demanded.  “What you imagine my objective to be.”

When she studied him now, the look in his eyes was brutal—the lines of his face, solemn and severe.  For a moment, she almost doubted herself.  But if nine and twenty summers had taught her anything at all, it was to trust her instincts—and trust them, she did.

She fixed him with a ruthless stare—pitiless and unforgiving.  “Desire,” she accused.  She knew it would sound absurd, but she said it all the same.  “You look at me with something wicked in your eyes,” she muttered.  “An unwanted invitation—and I don’t like it.”

His utter lack of expression gave way to dark amusement.  “The nature of an invitation is that of a request,” he said coolly.  “An option that the recipient is at liberty to refuse.”

She pressed her lips together.  “So you don’t deny it.”

He looked down at her with the ghost of a smirk on his lips.  “If you perceived an invitation in my eyes, it is not my place to deny it,” he evaded—placing the responsibility back on her.  She scowled, but he wasn’t done talking.  “However, I do resent the implication that my sole objective is _sex_.” 

Still, his eyes gleamed with mirth. 

Oh, he was _enjoying_ this.

Fury boiled low in her stomach.  “You’re repulsive,” she grumbled.

He chuckled.  “If that be your opinion, I would be a poor fool indeed to pursue your affection.”

She gathered another handful from the tin, eating it slowly.  “I was never referring to _affection_ ,” she said pointedly, staring at him from beneath a beetling brow.  “Or is affection a prerequisite for sex?”

He roared a laugh again.  “It can be useful, but no, I suppose it is not.”  His expression was probably the most open and sincere she’d ever seen it—still thoroughly diverted.  “All one needs is mutual allure.”

She blinked.  “And permission,” she said slowly, staring at him.  “Both parties should be willing to participate—which at times I believe requires some delicacy to nurture.”

Now he looked affronted.  “Hence the word _mutual_ ,” he muttered.  Thunder cracked outside.  “Believe whatever you wish of me, but not that I have forced my will upon others.”

She lifted her eyebrows.  “Good,” she said curtly.  “Keep your 'will' to yourself.”

He smoothed the back of his thumb against his lips, where the beginning of a provocative grin was spitefully appearing.  “Whatever you _desire_ ,” he said mockingly.  “But—” He seemed to consider his next words for the briefest of moments.  “I daresay you _are_ attracted to me.”

There it was.

She stared hard at the fire, struggling to come up with a valid reproach.  “I very nearly _despise_ you, Gaius,” she muttered.  In fact, if it wasn’t for all his magnetic charisma, that _pull_ she couldn’t explain, she very much doubted she’d be speaking to him at all.

His voice was a dark purr beside her.  “Yet you fail to deny it,” he said, echoing her words from before.

She pursed her lips.  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she said lowly.  “But I believe you’re _very_ aware of how attractive you can be.”

He laughed again.  “What makes you level _that_ accusation?”

She shrugged.  “You heard rumors about me,” she said simply, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.  “I heard rumors about you.”

He leaned back over his knees to look up at her through his lashes.  “Do tell.”

She scoffed.  “You won’t enjoy them,” she warned him.

Another soft growl of thunder outside, and his pale eyes flashed.  “Try me.”

She laughed softly under her breath.  “I heard that you tended to be—admired,” she said suggestively, meeting his eyes, holding the sudden searing heat of his stare.  “That you tended to be the object of unanswered _affection_ —and that many a poor, disillusioned fool have gone to great lengths to please you, only to be sorely disappointed.”

A slow and tempting grin spread across his lips.  “But you would never do such a thing.”

She should be cringing at his words, at the wicked implications they held—flinching from the weight of his sinister stare.  But instead it was easy to hold his gaze—to see straight through him.  “Your pleasure has nothing to do with me,” she said frankly.

And yet somehow, he looked satisfied, the shadows in his eyes only growing darker.  “You give me so much of it already,” he said.  “I would hardly know what to do with _more_.”

Finally, the warning signal in her mind.  She looked back at the fire.  “Enough,” she said, making her voice as dismissive as possible.

To her surprise, he backed off.  “As you wish,” he sighed, stretching his arms and getting to his feet.

He went to check on his spread-out clothing.  At the thought of it, she realized she was finally warm—and strangely comfortable, considering the circumstances.  She wondered if her robes were faring the same.  She reached down to touch the wrinkled fabric and, while it _was_ still damp, it was drying.

“What of your admirers, then,” he brusquely asked.

She jerked her head in his direction, thrown.  “What?”

He was digging around in the pocket of his jacket and frowning at the ceiling—pulling out a clumped pile of paper.  “Your lovers,” he said, glancing back at her.  “Do you—as you put it— _answer_ their affections?”

She stared at him for a moment, trying to calm the sudden stammer of her heart, the pulse that started to race beneath her skin.  He couldn’t possibly know about— _No_.  It was a general question, a reply to the indictment aimed at him. 

She took a breath and closed her eyes.  “I thought I made it very clear that I have no wish to discuss my personal affairs.”

He chuckled softly.  Then came the sounds of his footsteps, moving back beside her.  She opened her eyes to find him pulling his seat closer to the fire—closer to her.  “I thought you had no wish to discuss your _parents_.”

“Parents, friends, _lovers_ ,” she muttered, watching him with cautious eyes.  “If you aren’t among them, you can have _no cause to ask questions_.”

Something about that comment made him bark a laugh—and flash her a wolfish grin.  “My work is cut out for me, then,” he quipped.  “Though I doubt you would consent to an adoption.”

She stared at him for a moment in shock, parsing his meaning, pursing her lips tightly together—torn between the disparate urges to laugh at the joke and slap him squarely in the face. 

Furthermore, what _was_ this? 

Why was it so _easy_ to keep talking, to skirt around topics that, normally, set her to silence?  Was it because it felt so surreal regardless—so improbable to be talking like this, with _him_ , at _all?_

“I truly hate you,” she muttered.

His pale eyes sparkled in the firelight.  “Are you quite certain?”

She shot him a fierce glance.  “Of course I am,” she hissed.

“Interesting,” he muttered.  “Especially since I am of the strong impression that you like me _very much_ ,” he contended, his voice low and convincing.  “More than you would ever admit—least of all to yourself.”

Outrage swelled in her chest and she tried to control it, knowing it would only serve to prove his point.  “I hope you enjoy your little _theory_ , then,” she grumbled, pointedly avoiding his eyes.  “But try not to be too disappointed when you discover it’s false.”

He chuckled under his breath.  “Oh,” he began, the sound deep and humming in his chest.  “I very much _doubt_ that I will be disappointed.  But then again,” he muttered.  “You have surprised me before.”

Wrong, wrong, _wrong_. 

Wrong the way he toyed with her—wrong the way she _responded_.  Wrong that beneath the horror and disgrace, the faintest sense of sick satisfaction fluttered, to know that perhaps she had some power over this fallen legatus.

She took a sharp breath.  Then she got to her feet and scooped up her garments from the floor.  She could feel him watching her as she hefted the piles of damp, wrinkled fabric in her arms and stalked off into the washroom, shutting the door behind her.

The lavatory was very small, with barely enough room for its facilities—let alone an occupant.  She piled her clothes on the edge of the sink and stripped out of her cloak, replacing every layer of her cold, humid clothing.  The grit of hidden grime and dirt had worked its way against her skin, but she ignored it, fastening her cloak back over top of it all.

When she came out, Gaius was chewing something.  In lieu of speaking, he raised his eyebrows and jerked his chin toward the window, where the rain was still pouring down.

She set her jaw and shrugged.  “I need to leave,” she announced.

He wiped his palms on the sides of his trousers and got to his feet, beginning to cross in her direction.  Every muscle in her body stiffened and she squared her shoulders, keeping her expression cold—but watching him all the same.

As he approached her like this, she could see exactly how he was shaped—broad shoulders and chest, all of him roped with heavy muscle that clearly kept descending.  He cleared his throat.  “We really must stop ending our conversations on such _unusual_ notes,” he said gently, closing the distance between them until he was nearly just an arm’s length away.

He stood a good head and shoulders taller than her.  She looked at him with what she hoped was a solemn, if not intimidating, expression.  “Stop bidding me to meet with you.”

His lips quirked but he didn’t completely smile.  “I will wait for your bidding, then,” he said darkly.

 _Doubtful_.  She chewed on the inside of her lip.  “Thank you for—” she gestured to the hearth, to the bag on the floor, to the tin of snacks.  “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

“Thank _you_ for responding to my summons,” he said softly, leveraging the full force of his charm behind his voice.  “If you insist upon travelling in this weather, do make sure to take proper care of yourself.”

Dissonant, the warmth in his voice and the tension in his eyes.  Dissonant, the nature of the words, falling from the lips of the man who once might have killed her.  Dissonant, the urge she felt to flee, and the urge she felt to—

She tilted her head.  _“Goodbye.”_

His eyes glittered down at her, but he said nothing.

She could feel him watching as she left the room—the heat of his eyes, a phantom that followed behind her.

 

* * *

✣

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The verbal sparring between them is really my entire reason for writing this dynamic.
> 
> Happy Shadowbringers Eve! I thought an update to this fic was fitting.


	8. Cold Companions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien played so well at hard edges, at remaining aloof.  
> But perhaps he, for all his bitter objections, was bound tightest of them all.

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☾◈☽

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Disgust fueled her with haste, with bitter intensity.

_Good._

She would need no small measure of madness to survive this desert tempest.

Hunched against the bite of ice and water, she knew she was chilled to the bone.  Her blood, however, beat oppressively hot, warped by the astral aspect she now called upon for warmth.  If she reached for the rest of her aether, tried to channel in this state, she knew she’d be aethersick by the time she arrived. 

But she was desperate enough to do it—would eventually _have_ to do it—to go, at least, where she wanted to go.  She bore a single destination clearly in mind. 

But from what, exactly, was she running?

The deluge around her sprayed, cold as frost against her wet robes and skin.  She pushed her way through it.  From the mud and thunder and mist, a rocky outcropping crept into vision; she charged more urgently forth.  It was merely a lip of stone, jutting over sheer embankment.  Too open to be called a cave, it offered truly minimal protection from the elements.

But it was _something_.

She threw herself headlong under the natural awning and collapsed against the rootbound wall, wheezing deeply.

But she was not alone.

No sooner had she caught her breath than another figure surged through the curtain of rain, tall and cloaked and menacing.

She choked on a lungful of air; blinked the blur of cold water from her eyes; thrust out a palm near to searing with fire.  One steel-clad hand snatched her wrist.  Fingers sheathed in blunt metal and leather dug deep into her skin—to her shock, clenching a nerve and pattern of pressure points to suppress her. 

There was only one person she told about—

Her lungs burned and she tore her hand from his grip.  “You were _tracking me again?”_

“And damn slagging _glad I did,”_ Estinien bellowed, grabbing the front of her cloak.  He dragged her several ilms forward.  “What in the name of all seven hells were you _doing?_ ”

She clawed away his fingers and shoved him back into the rain stream with both arms.  “Let me tend to my own business,” she said spitefully, thunder roaring overhead.  She winced.  “I don’t need you to _babysit._ ”

“Like my _arse_ ,” he spat, tearing back the hood of his cloak, lunging forward.  His dark eyes were wild with fury, his hair tangled and wet.  True to her predictions, he was physically shaking with anger.  “Are you godsdamned _mad?_ ”

She could feel herself scowling hard, standing her ground.  “You need to _calm yourself._ ”

Perhaps an unhelpful suggestion—but he couldn’t rightfully deny it.  His shoulders were hunched beneath his lance and he was winded, flecks of spit at his lips.  He grimaced and scrubbed his mouth with his cloak; took a rough breath.  “What were you doing with bloody _van Baelsar?_ ” he clarified, his voice more a snarl than anything else.

Her eyebrows lifted in shock.  “You knew—?”

He scoffed and seethed.  “I make it my _duty_ to know,” he ground out, gritting his teeth.  “Give me an answer.”

The rain was churning in sheets behind him, layer after layer.  She hooked her fingers in his cloak to yank him more fully to shelter, and he stumbled frontward in a flash of surprise.  “You’re getting soaked,” she explained.

His expression warped back into a grimace.  “ _Answer._ ”

The words burst from her lips.  “I don’t know!”  Her face tensed with that truth—with that lack of understanding.  “He bid me meet with him once before—wished to talk, shared a drink; some Garlean spirit—”

Estinien looked like he was fit to explode.  “You met with him _twice?_ ”

The rejoinder fell from her lips, sharp and arch.  “Did you not hound me well enough to notice?”

She could see his jaw stiffen and clench.  Thunder crashed, beginning at last to drift into the distance—a flimsy consolation.  “I do not _hound you_ , Samantha,” he snapped.

“No,” she agreed, her own stifled wrath beginning to boil.  “You only intrude to skewer and scold me.”

His hand jerked to fist in her collar.  Her back went rigid.  Aether ached, defensive in her marrow.  He dragged her up to her toes and, for the span of several breaths, they watched each other in strained silence—bristling beasts barely veiled by the patter of rain, lulled only by dwindling groans of thunder. 

His grip on her slowly relaxed and she sank to her heels, tension easing from her spine.

Amidst the rain, humidity built in the overhang cleft.  She could smell his sweat and bitter exhalation, hear him draw a ragged breath.  “If my concern is as an intrusion,” he growled.  “ _So bloody be it._ ”

He flung his hand away and she braced herself against the muddy earth, rubbing her throat.  “I can take care of myself,” she grumbled.  “All the better if you stop choking me to death.”

He grunted bitterly and cast a stiff glance at the rain.  It seemed lighter.  “Choking you back to your senses,” he groused.  She watched the muscles in his neck tense and flutter.  “If he summons you again— _you would do best to refuse him._ ”  His voice was very gruff.  “And give no heed to his ambassadorial _chaff_.”

A laugh tickled the back of her tongue.  “Gods,” she coughed.  “I knew you would say that.”

He crossed his arms, turning to face the fading rain.  “Good.”

She snorted.  “You enjoy being so predictable?”

“Do you?” he levelled, lifting his chin.  A wisp of damp silver hair fell into his eyes, and he smoothed it back.  “I can see just how hotly you wish to skulk back to Coerthas.”

She leaned against the grit of the embankment, pressing her lips together.  Yes, they knew each other well.  Perhaps _too_ well.  She couldn’t disagree.

From the tilt of his sharp profile, he glanced at her with one hard, dark eye; took her silence as apposite confirmation.  As she watched, he turned his back, shielding his face from view.  “I can hazard an easier guess as to why,” he noted, his gravelly voice abruptly barbed. 

 _Hurt_.

She took a stiff breath.  “Estinien.”

His shoulders went stiff in response.

“You know—” her throat closed on the words and she cleared it, wondered how many times they would have this conversation.  “You know why.”

For a moment, he was solemnly silent.  The rain drizzled.  “You and I _both_ know why,” he said softly.  And quietly, tenderly, quite nearly indiscernibly, his voice dropped and gentled.  “That man is decency made flesh.”

That, she would _never_ refute.

She hardly realized she was speaking; her voice was a breath.  "But you and I are something else.” 

Aching.  _Anguished_.  Burned to the quick. 

Both of them raw, thirsting for solace, yearning for something to soothe their wounds—but strangely averse to the smoothest course. 

He was silent, waiting; seemed to infer her tacit thoughts.  She hugged her arms around her own waist and shivered, cradled the wet layers there.  “You and I converge in torment,” she muttered.  “We take and we take, and we leave only ash.”  Her chest felt raw, swollen.  “But Aymeric—”

He was _different_. 

He deserved so much better than either of them.

Estinien was utterly still, facing the last whiffs of the storm.  The cold desert air was now full of mist.  “You should go to him,” he muttered, firmly tugging his hood back into place.  “He was pining away for you last that we met.”

Her heart gave a flip.  “When?”

“Often as I _hound_ you,” he growled coldly, “I hound him too.” 

He finally turned to look at her again—to fix her with the midnight pitch of his eyes, so like a somber, unending abyss.

Estinien played so well at hard edges, at remaining aloof.  But perhaps he, for all his bitter objections, was bound tightest of them all.

She started to reach for him, and he flinched away.  “Go to Ishgard,” he insisted, turning to prowl out of sight.

And then he was gone.

But as fast as he had vanished, she knew, she _knew—_

She knew as sure as living and as death, Estinien would be back.

 

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✣

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**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Please let me know if you have any feedback or suggestions.


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